Cannon in D
by LadyBranwyn
Summary: Hornblower and Bush are ordered to take three cannons ashore on a mysterious mission. Hornblower, Bush, OC, Historical Persons. Note: This is book!verse, but FFnet doesn't have that category.
1. Chapter 1

"Come in, Captain Bush. Please, sit down."

Bush thumped across the deck and settled himself in the chair. A courier ship had recently arrived with despatches, so this summons to the commodore's cabin was not unexpected.

Hornblower cleared his throat. After a strangely talkative comment about the weather, he asked Bush about the progress on the _Nonsuch's_ provisioning. "What about the barrels of rotten salt fish?" he asked. "And the shortage of sail cloth?"

The questions went on and on, but happily, Bush could tell him that all was in order and at last they were ready to sail. As he spoke, Bush stared at the packet of despatches on the commodore's desk, resisting the urge to tap his wooden foot on the floor.

Finally, Hornblower said, "Captain Bush, the admiralty has offered the services of this ship to Count Razumovsky, the Russian ambassador to the Court of Vienna. This is a most delicate assignment. When we reach port, we will need to put ashore three guns and the crews to man them."

"Yes, sir." Bush didn't need to consult the ship's roster; he had been with this crew long enough that he knew which names he would want. For a shore engagement, he would need sailors who were level-headed and quick on their feet. Due to the diplomatic discretion required, he would take command of the party himself. "How many marines should we bring?" He had no idea what sort of resistance to expect.

"No, there's no reason to take them along."

"So Austrian troops will be supporting us." Bush nodded. It made perfect sense to avoid offending the local civilians. "Should the gun crews be issued pistols and cutlasses?"

"What? No, certainly not. Though they should wear their Sunday clothing."

"Yes, sir," Bush said evenly, trying not to look too surprised.

Hornblower stared at him appraisingly. "Captain Bush, do you know how to read musical notation?"

Bush stammered in surprise. "When I was a lad, I--I was given lessons on the pianoforte, sir. Though my playing was never good." His eldest sister's attempts to teach him music had failed miserably. His heavy fingers were far better suited to a sword hilt than a keyboard. He nervously wondered what connection there could be between a shore engagement and his doubtful musical ability. Hornblower was enjoying this far too much.

"If you can read music, that will do splendidly," the commodore replied. "The goodwill of our allies will depend on it."

Swearing and sweating, the men hauled the guns up the cobblestone streets of Trieste. They had no proper field carriages but had to use the small-wheeled naval carriages from the ship. It was hot work despite the sea wind at their backs. When they stopped to rest by a fountain, Bush looked down at the _Nonsuch_ at anchor in the harbor. He thought she was uncommonly handsome. Though a third-rate ship of the line with seventy-four heavy guns, she had the graceful lines of a frigate, and her black and yellow hull gleamed in the fading sunlight. He did not like going ashore and leaving her in this foreign port, though he reminded himself that he had left her in the hands of an able and sensible first lieutenant.

They continued up the street, every step a struggle against gravity and the gun carriages. The neighborhood housewives, wary after years of warfare, shuttered the windows as they passed. Bush could hardly blame them. Napoleon's troops had occupied this city three times in the past fifteen years. The houses were painted in pastel hues, pale blue and rose and salmon, reflecting the hues of the sunset over the bay. Strangely, this place reminded him of the cities of the Baltic, Riga and Copenhagen. Except for the flowering vines that trailed over the walls.

Young Gerard pushed a sweaty curl back from his face. He bore a striking resemblance to his uncle, but Bush tried not to hold that against him. "Pardon me for asking, sir, but what does this Count Razumovsky want the _Nonsuch's_ guns for?" It was not an unreasonable question; it was the sort of question that Hornblower had always asked when he was a junior officer. The war had moved on from this city several weeks ago.

"We will find out from the Count, Mr. Gerard. Get those men moving," Bush replied shortly.

_Put your guns and crew at the disposal of Count Razumovsky,_ their orders had said. _The Count requests that you send an artillerist with highly developed musical sensibility who can sight-read musical notation. _Bush and Hornblower were equally puzzled by this statement. Bush's guess was that this nobleman was insane. This wouldn't be the first madman that the Admiralty had allied them with. He thought with disgust of the late Don Julian Alvarado. _High-ranking diplomats and officials will be at the Count's palace,_ the orders continued. _Avoid any unnecessary show of force, and exercise due caution. _Bush could deal with cutthroats, with pirates or mutineers, but the thought of facing diplomats made his blood run cold. He was grateful that Hornblower would be waiting for them when they arrived. That morning, the Count had sent a coach with matching black horses to take Commodore Hornblower to the palace. Bush wished that this Count had sent some horses to help with the guns, but civilians rarely understood the problems involved in transporting artillery.

At the top of the hill, they stopped before a massive structure with a marble façade. Torches burned on each column, and sentries stood at attention by the towering doors. Several coaches waited in a line. Bush saw no sign of Hornblower and had just decided to hail one of the sentries when a balding man in a flowered waistcoat staggered up to them and gave a hasty bow.

"Captain Bush, I presume. I am honored to meet you, sir."

"Hoyle Bennett at your service. I am attached to the staff of the Embassy in Vienna. I trust that your journey was not unduly onerous?"

"No, it was not very onerous at all," Bush replied, wondering what "onerous" meant.

"Good. We will have to bring the guns in through that main entrance, but unfortunately, we must wait until all the guests have alighted." Bennett fanned himself with a handkerchief.

Gerard ordered the men to stand at ease. Bush longed to sit on a gun carriage—the long walk on the uneven cobblestones had left him weary—but he'd be damned before he showed such weakness before the men. He watched as the first coach pulled up to the broad steps. The footmen glittered with gold lace, and the mounted escort wore the dark green of the Russian Army. A tall man stepped out and looked up at the palace with mild interest. Though his ginger hair was thinning about the temples, he moved with a languid grace. He didn't seem to notice that the three eighteen pounders were pointed directly at him. In fact, he didn't seem to notice much of anything, sweeping past his aides and guards without a glance.

"Alexander, Tsar of All the Russias. God save him, God save the Russias." Bennett murmured. He made no attempt to hide the sarcasm in his voice.

The coach rattled away, and the next one took its place. Bush could not identify the colors or cut of the uniforms of the escort, but this part of world was rife with two-bit kingdoms. The coach door opened and two guards stepped out, followed by a broad-shouldered man in a garish uniform. He was strikingly handsome, and his dark hair fell in curls to his shoulders. He wore the high boots of a cavalryman, and his legs were heavily muscled under the buff breeches. He walked with a slight swagger, his cape swirling in his wake.

"And that, Captain, is the infamous Joachim Murat."

"Napoleon's marshal? What is he doing here?"

"He is still King of Naples. He betrayed his master Napoleon in order to keep his throne, though the Allies may yet regret their agreement—he is still a reformer and Jacobin at heart. A most dangerous man." Bennett shook his head.

As if he could hear them talking, the marshal glanced in their direction. His eyes widened at the sight of the guns on their squat wooden carriages. When he saw that Bush was watching him, he raised a hand in friendly salute to a fellow officer. Surprised, Bush returned the gesture from long habit then cursed himself for showing such courtesy to a murderer and tyrant. He had never felt any personal hatred toward the crews and officers of the French ships he fought. They were only Frenchmen, after all, and no doubt they had been misled by the lies of their own government. This marshal, however, was a different matter entirely. A man could be known by the company he kept, and this man was a friend and brother-in-law of the Corsican.

Murat went forward to where the horses stood in their traces, and he lifted their hooves one by one, carefully examining them, with no regard for his elegant uniform. He spoke with the carriage driver and then with his guards, and then the marshal hurried up the steps in a flourish of blue velvet.

The rest of coaches were slowly emptied of their cargo of noblemen. "Ah, that should be the last of them," Mr. Bennett said as the final coach rolled away.

They dragged the cannon up the steps and into the palace.

"Heave, you sons of a gun!" young Gerard shouted, working alongside the men. The sentries watched with bored interest.

"This way, this way." Mr. Bennet beckoned them onward.

The British diplomat led them through halls lit with crystal chandeliers. The foremast of a sloop would have barely brushed the ceilings, and mirrored walls reflected their sweaty, disheveled images. The only sounds were the creak of the gun carriages and the hushed voices of the sailors.

They eased the guns down a short flight of steps and into an open courtyard. Suddenly, they were hit by a gale of sound. Horns, flutes, and violins were blasting and scratching in several different keys, and a lone clarinet was squawking up and down the scale. The musicians, scores of them, sat in chairs or wandered about as they played. In the middle of the crowd, a wild-eyed man stood on a wooden box, waving a cane and shouting like a boatswain. His clothes were rumpled and his neckcloth tied haphazardly as if he had just rolled out of his hammock.

"That is Herr Beethoven," Mr. Bennett told them. "He wants the guns in the percussion section over there, between the muskets and the timpani. Count Razumovsky and the guests will be seated on the other side of the courtyard."

"Percussion section?" Bush could not believe it. Beside him, young Gerard was trying not to laugh. They had just hauled three tons of iron half a mile up a 45 degree incline--for a concert. "Mr. Bennett, why didn't you simply borrow three cannon from the city garrison?"

"Herr Beethoven was very specific about the size of the guns. Something to do with the pitch. He is most particular about such things."

Orders were orders, Bush reminded himself. No matter how strange. They wheeled the cannon to their assigned place, aimed them away from the crowd, and blocked the wheels. There was no need for precise elevation, but they would need to determine the proper charge of powder to use without shot. Some of the guests strolled by and eyed them with open curiosity as they loaded the guns. With great relief, Bush spotted a familiar cocked hat among the powdered wigs and top hats.

"The cannon are loaded and ready, sir." Bush touched his hat. "Powder and wadding only," he added quickly.

"Very good, Captain Bush." Hornblower cleared his throat and tapped his fingers on the gilded hilt of his dress sword. It was no secret to anyone who knew him that the commodore would rather lead a boarding action than have to attend a diplomatic reception. A boarding action at night in heavy seas.


	2. Chapter 2

Hornblower turned to the gun crews. "Men, I trust you will give that French marshal a show of the gunnery that won Trafalgar and Lissa."

"Aye, sir. We will, sir," the sailors replied.

"Though I doubt that the rest of these lubbers would know a carronade from a lemonade," Hornblower said wryly. The sailors grinned, and one of them cheered, "Good, old Horny! You tell 'em!" Clearly pleased, Hornblower pretended to ignore him.

"Rifles on deck," young Gerard called out as a small party of soldiers marched into the courtyard. Moving in perfect step, they formed up in two neat ranks near the timpani.

These were professional soldiers, not tradesmen and farmers turned militiamen. Bush watched them uneasily, but he remembered what Mr. Bennett had said. "Those must be the muskets that Mr. Bennett was talking about," he told the commodore. "Though I'll be damned if I recognize their colors."

"They're Murat's troops. That's the flag of Naples."

"They're from the French army?" Bush had to restrain himself from shouting. French soldiers were standing less than ten feet away, and the gun crews were armed with nothing more than knives.

"Some of them are, no doubt," Hornblower said. "Though now they give their allegiance to Naples and her allies."

The gun crews scowled at the Frenchmen. A sailor spat on the ground and muttered under his breath, "I say a Frog's a Frog under any colors."

"These Frogs are on our side now," Bush said loudly, though secretly he agreed. "And you are to treat them as our loyal allies, and any man who does not will answer for it. Is that clear?"

"Aye, aye, sir," the men murmured with little enthusiasm.

"Such are the changing winds of politics, Mr. Bush," Hornblower said in a low voice. "Today's enemies are tomorrow's allies. Murat isn't the only one here with shifting allegiance."

Bush nodded. "Russia." Tsar Alexander was a former ally of Napoleon.

"And don't forget that the Austrians changed sides to suit their own advantage."

"The lot of 'em have less honor than a Kingston whore, sir." Bush thanked the Almighty that he was a simple sailor who could tell friend from foe. There was never any doubt which way to aim the ship's cannon.

"Ah, Commodore Hornblower! There you are!" Mr. Bennett hurried up to them, his chest heaving in his flowered waistcoat. "Commodore Hornblower, may I present to you Herr Ludwig von Beethoven, composer to the Austrian Court? I am afraid that you will need to speak up---Herr Beethoven is a trifle deaf."

"I am honored, sir," Hornblower shouted, removing his hat and bowing.

Instead of returning the courtesy, Beethoven stared at the guns. "My cannon are here!" he exclaimed in thickly-accented English. Slowly, he walked around one of the eighteen-pounders, peered into the bore, and then patted the barrel. "Good. Very good. And which one of you is the musician?" he asked briskly, looking from Hornblower to Bush.

"I am, sir," Bush bellowed in the voice that he used when hailing the topmen. "Captain William Bush at your service."

Beethoven pulled a handful of papers from his jacket. "Here is the part for the cannons, Captain." He handed the papers to Bush. "As you can see, there is nothing…nothing…nothing…then the first violins play "God Save the King" and then right here—" he stabbed at the page with his finger—"Bang!"

Seized with mad panic, Bush stared at the score. His piano lessons in Chichester had not prepared him for this. The first stave was marked _cannone_ so he guessed that was his part. The notes for the guns were written as small black circles above the top line. Then he realized that, on the second stave, there were cues written in for him to follow. Below the words _violino I_ were the opening measures of "God Save the King."

"Can you follow the part? There is no time for rehearsal."

"Aye, aye, sir," Bush shouted into Beethoven's ear.

After the composer had left with Mr. Bennett, Hornblower peered over his shoulder at the score.

"This will be quite easy, sir," Bush explained. "We just follow the music until the fiddles play 'God Save the King'." He pointed to the notes and hummed the tune.

Hornblower stared at the page blankly. "Of course." Bush had forgot that the commodore was utterly tone-deaf. "But you will need to take into account the delay in firing time, Captain."

"You're right, sir. I hadn't thought of that," Bush replied, and the two of them happily discussed whether to fire the cannon using the flintlock or a timed fuse.

They were interrupted by a footman who had been sent to show the commodore to the dais on the other side of the courtyard.

"They must be about to begin. Mr. Bennett had to negotiate the seating arrangements, and I don't envy him. That's not an easy task when half the guests aren't on speaking terms. Well, good luck, Captain," Hornblower said. They shook hands as if he were about to fight a shore engagement, then the commodore left.

Bush saw that the Tsar and Marshal Murat were already seated on the high dais. A row of columns ran along the each side of the courtyard, forming a shadowy alley, but the courtyard itself was brightly lit by torches and lamps. The audience sparkled with gems and gold braid.

The musicians hurried to their seats, and Beethoven took his place on the box in front of them. Though not a tall man, he had broad shoulders and the massive arms of a ship's blacksmith. He glanced around to see that he had their attention, glowering from under his bushy eyebrows, then he waved his cane threateningly and the drums and trumpets began to play.

Bush had not been sure whether he would like such modern music, but this was fine and stirring stuff. First there was a French tune, and Murat's riflemen fired a volley, aiming high into the air, and then the trumpets played "Rule Britannia." Beside him, young Gerard was tapping his foot in time with the drums.

When the fiddles started scraping "God Save the King," Bush drew his dress sword and began counting out the measures to himself. _One-two-three. Two-two-three. Three-two-three. Four-two-three… _The gun crews intently watched for his signal, and as he brought down the sword, they fired. The cannon flared then kicked back, unfettered by the ringbolts on a ship's deck. Someone in the audience shrieked as a cloud of smoke drifted across the courtyard. The sailors were grinning and laughing like madmen.

They reloaded the cannon and fired again at Bush's signal. Then it was the turn of the French riflemen. Bush watched as they loaded their arms and fired, loaded and fired again. The speed and precision of their drill filled him with grudging admiration. But then on the last volley, one of the shots was late, stuttering after the others. He would have thought nothing of it, thought that a rifleman's hand had slipped on the trigger, if he had not seen the grey puff of smoke drifting from between two columns. Someone had fired from behind Murat's troops.

From where they sat, the audience couldn't have seen the shot, and the musicians played on, unaware of their danger. The trumpets and tubas were blaring "God Save the King" so loudly that no one would hear him shouting. Cursing his wooden leg, Bush ran as fast as he could toward the hidden assassin. He hoped that young Gerard would have enough sense to follow him.

There was no sign of panic on the dais so the bullet must have missed its mark, but a well-trained rifleman could reload in thirty seconds. Bush had to find him before he could take a second shot. To the right of where he had seen the smoke, Bush ran into the alley of columns. Staring at his target, the sharpshooter might not see an attack from the side.

Bush advanced slowly, keeping to the shadows by the palace wall, away from the light that fell between the columns. He hoped that the noise of the orchestra would cover the sound of his footsteps. _Damnation, where is Gerard? Busy watching the ladies, no doubt._

Ahead, a dark figure stood in the lee of a column. Sword raised, Bush rushed forward—then just as abruptly stopped.

"Thank God you are here, Captain." Mr. Bennett held out a rifle. "Look what I found. The barrel is still warm."

Tucking the sword under his left arm, Bush took the rifle and quickly examined it. French, by the looks of it, though that proved nothing since the weapon could have been captured. It had been reloaded for the frizzen was shut and ready to fire. The assassin must have heard the diplomat's approach and fled before he could take a second shot. He had left his rifle behind, but he could be armed with other weapons. "We must raise the alarm," Bush said, handing the rifle back to Bennett.

The diplomat stared at the rifle with horror. "Good God. He could easily have killed the Tsar or Murat. The repercussions would have been endless." In the dim light, Bush suddenly noticed a dark smudge on his jaw, in the spot where a rifleman cradled the weapon against his face.

"He still might, if we don't stop him," Bush said, watching the other man closely.

Swinging the rifle like a club, Bennett leaped forward. Bush brought up the sword and turned aside the blow aimed at his head, but he fell to the ground as Bennett struck him behind the knees. He rolled over clumsily, hindered by his wooden leg. Still lying on the pavement, he managed to untangled the sword and rake it across the diplomat's lower legs. Bennett struck the blade from his hands and raised the rifle for the killing blow. But then the diplomat made an odd sound of surprise, dropped to his knees, and fell forward on his face. Behind him stood Beethoven, wielding a bassoon. His thick eyebrows were drawn together in a scowl.

Leaning over Bush, the composer asked, "Are you injured?"

"No, sir," Bush replied in a choked shout. He ached all over, but he knew from long experience that nothing hurt enough to be broken.

"Good. The audience will demand an encore, and I don't want to disappoint them."

Bush gawked up at him, at a loss for words.

"Captain, I am making a joke! You English are so humorless." The composer took Bush by the arm and steadied him as he got to his feet.

"How did you know to follow me, sir?"

"I am deaf, not blind. From the podium, I saw the smoke of the shot when I turned to cue the piccolos for their entrance. And then I saw you leave, and I thought you might need my assistance."

"And, by God, I did. I am deeply in your debt, sir." He pressed the composer's hand.

Young Gerard and the gun crews burst into the alley, followed by Murat's riflemen, and then by Hornblower and the marshal himself. Soon they were joined by most of the orchestra and the guests. Mr. Bennett, badly stunned but still alive, was carried away by the palace sentries.

"What will they do with him, sir?" Bush asked Hornblower.

The commodore shook his head. "They will turn him over to the local gendarmerie, but I doubt they will hold him for trial. The British consul will intervene on his behalf."

"Who do you think he was aiming at?"

"Murat," the commodore said shortly. "The Tsar is much more easily led."

"More politics?" Bush asked with a scowl. No doubt this Murat did deserve to be shot. God knows what crimes he had committed in the name of the French Emperor. Yet, in the King's Navy, even the lowest mutineer was given the chance to defend himself at a court-martial. Bush glanced toward Murat with a strange feeling of pity. Surrounded by enemies, did the marshal ever long for the days when he was a common soldier?

As if he guessed Bush's thoughts, Hornblower said, "If you'll be so good as to return to the ship. Have her ready to sail with the tide."

Waving the bassoon over his head, Beethoven hailed them as he shouldered his way through the crowd. "I think this concert is over, gentlemen," he said. "A most resounding finale. Captain Bush, you have the makings of a fine percussionist. I can easily find a place for you with the Court orchestra in Vienna."

Bush couldn't tell whether the man was in earnest or not. Hornblower made a choking sound that might have been a laugh. "I am honored by your kind offer, sir," Bush replied, "But I must refuse."

"Then until we meet again, Captain." Beethoven made a short bow from the waist then hurried off.

"Well, I'll be damned, sir," Bush said to Hornblower, and as far as he was concerned, that summed up the entire affair.

_The End_


End file.
